


white noise and feedback loops

by silv3rbloodalch3mist



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: AU, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Modern AU, SoMa Week 2019, Western Fantasy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-01-23 17:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18554491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silv3rbloodalch3mist/pseuds/silv3rbloodalch3mist
Summary: Seven drabbles for SoMa Week 2k19; some canon, some not.





	1. 2 AM

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back-back-back, back again-gain-gain

It was not the first time the godawful hour of two in the morning found them stumbling into a hotel in various states of tired and  _ ‘Hit By A Truck’ _ , nor would it be the last. It was an occupational hazard when you hunted the scum of the earth; kishin eggs usually hunted at night, so meisters and weapons usually did the same. It got them the occasional weird look when they trudged through hotel lobbies bloody and sweaty and victorious, but usually they were left alone.

Or they had the local police called on them. But that was rare. Ish. Maka had learned to introduce herself to the front desk agents in advance and flash her DWMA ID to stave off any potential awkwardness.

This particular night Soul watched Maka impatiently wave her keycard in front of the door, grumbling under her breath as the light flashed red. He could feel her irritation crack through the air, and reached around her to take the key and hold it up to the lock; having the sense to not grin when the light turned green and Maka’s eyes narrowed. “Come on,” Soul nudged her forward, opening the door to let them both in as Maka stomped forward. It had been a long,  _ annoying  _ fight, and while they had the satisfaction of a job well done and Soul had the satisfaction of a good meal to boot, Maka was still working out the tension in her shoulders. It didn’t help that she had taken more than a few falls and hits that left her looking like she’d just walked away from a (thankfully moderate) car wreck.

She didn’t even bother with the bed, heading straight for the bathroom counter and hopping up so her legs dangled over the edge. Soul closed and locked the door behind them, and when he turned back around Maka was struggling with her boots wearing a look that promised murder.

“Okay, breathe,” Soul said with a soft sigh as he kicked off his own sneakers, tossing his jacket onto the bed he had claimed before they had gone hunting. He was faring much better after their fight, only a few sore muscles from being in weapon form so long and a couple bruises from some hard blocks, so his body only protested a bit when he knelt in front of Maka and brought her boot to rest on his thigh. He made quick work of the laces, slipping it over her foot and tucking the heavy boot under the counter before catching her other foot and repeating the process. 

Years ago, Maka would have protested the whole procedure, complaining that he was babying her, that she could take care of her own boots  _ thank you very much,  _ but now she just focused on her jacket while she let her weapon fuss. She threw the bundle of dark fabric into the corner of the bathroom, huffing when the motion pulled on her loose hair.

“How the hell did I lose  _ only one  _ ponytail holder,” she grumbled, pulling her gloves off with her teeth so she could run her fingers through the loose strands of hair on one side of her face. Her other pigtail was still intact, but only barely, and Soul couldn’t stop the huff of laughter at the state of her. 

“Just take the other out,” he said, pushing himself back upright so he could reach for her hair. Maka weakly smacked his hand away.

“Don’t. You suck at ponytails,” she muttered, and Soul almost wanted to gasp in mock offense except she was right and they both knew it. Braids he had  _down,_ though.

“Don’t strain your shoulders,” he said instead, watching Maka shake out the pigtail and make a face as her hair stuck to the half-dried blood on her face.

She pushed her fingers back through her hair while Soul washed his hands, gathering it all into an epically messy bun that she probably thought was in the middle of her head. Even over the running water he could hear her hiss of pain as the motion pulled on her strained muscles. Swinging around a scythe for nearly four and a half hours, demon weapon partner or not, was hell on the arms.

With his hands washed and some water splashed on his face, Soul dried himself off with a nearby towel and began to pick through the medical kit they’d preset by the sink. There was a bottle of pain pills that Soul knew he would be partaking in before he succumbed to sleep and he set those briefly aside as he searched for the antiseptic and bandages. Years of patching up his meister and himself meant that Soul had all his supplies gathered in less time than it took to blink, and he looked back just in time to see Maka’s skirt go flying into the pile with her jacket. 

“I’m starting to think I need to just cave to pressure and wear pants,” Maka grumbled, sitting on the counter in just her button-up and bike shorts, and Soul snorted. 

“Last time you tried, you bitched the whole fight and those pants are still shoved in the back of your closet,” he said, moving to stand in front of her as he started to help her with her shirt. “Where’s it hurt?”

“Shoulders are killing me.”

“Anything dislocated?”

“Nah, you’re just  _ heavy _ .”

“Rude." Maka snorted. "Keep going.” 

“Couple of scratches on my face and legs, bruises about damn everywhere,” Maka huffed, pulling her arms out of her shirt and watching as Soul tossed it to join the rest of her clothes. Neither commented on her state of undress, or the way Soul’s hands lingered at her wrists. It was just part of the routine. “My back hurts but I don’t think it’s anything bad.” Soul hummed, lifting the back of her tank top to look at her back in the mirror and frowning when he saw the dark bruises blooming across her skin and under her brastrap. She motioned at it with a whine and Soul gently undid the hooks and clasps so Maka could wiggle and pull her bra out from under her shirt like a magic trick.

“Bruises mostly.” 

“I hope you chewed well when you ate the bastard.” 

Soul laughed, nudging his chin against Maka’s temple as he brought her shirt back down and pulled away to grab a washcloth to clean her face with.

“Keep going.”

“Ankles are fine, wrists are mostly fine-”

“Mostly?” 

“Left twinges a bit.” Soul recalled Maka catching herself on said wrist about midway though the fight and grabbed an ace bandage to add to his pile of supplies as he waited for the water to heat up.

“Your head good?”

“I don’t have a concussion, if that’s what you’re asking, but I am tired and agitated so maybe ask again later.”

“You do remember we got the guy, right?” 

“Yeah, after taking our sweet time about it,” Maka huffed, watching Soul soak the washcloth in warm water and wring it back out in the sink. He left the water running as he moved back in front of his meister; one hand coming up to take hold of her jaw in gentle fingers. Maka didn’t fight him, letting him turn her head to his liking as he began to clean away the dirt and blood that felt caked onto her skin. It felt so good that she found her eyes slipping closed, focusing on the warmth of his fingers and each gentle pass of the cloth.

“Still got him.” 

“Soooul,” Maka whined, giving him a warning look that he only grinned at. He rinsed the blood and dirt off the cloth a few times, each pass getting his meister a little cleaner than the last. Once her face was done, he dared to sweep the wet washcloth along her shoulders and down her arms. Maka sighed softly, but didn’t stop him, so he counted it as a victory. Her legs were next, and he took special care with the rapidly-closing cuts and scratches.

“How about you?” Maka asked suddenly, and Soul hummed questioningly in reply as he focused on her calf. “Where’s it hurt?” she echoed, pushing his pale hair out of his eyes so she could see his face.

“Sore, mostly,” Soul admitted. “I think I have bruises on my fuckin’ spine. Nothing open though.”

Maka hummed, seemingly content with his reply. Soul and his washcloth got to Maka’s ankles and he peeled off her socks before he rolled her feet carefully in his hands, inspecting for any damage or blisters. He found nothing, and threw the washcloth through the open door to the shower so it could land in the tub with a wet splat. Maka snorted at the sound and Soul grinned as he washed his hands again. When he returned to his meister’s side, he was armed with a bag of cotton balls and a bottle of antiseptic; shuffling the tiny bathroom waste bin closer to his feet for the inevitable hailstorm of soiled cotton balls. Maka barely flinched as he began to clean each scrape. Most would be closed by morning thanks to her freakish Super Meister Passive Healing abilities, so he didn’t bother with bandages for most. Only a few of the deeper cuts got the full treatment, and it wasn’t long until he was reaching for the ace bandage so he could wrap Maka’s wrist.

“That may be overkill,” Maka said as Soul carefully wound the bandage around her left wrist. He kept it tight, but not overly so.

“Indulge me,” he said, not bothering to meet her eyes as he tied the bandage off, carefully tucking the ends away. He looked Maka over once more, making sure he didn’t miss anything important or life-threatening, and nodded when he was satisfied with his job.

Maka gave him a brief, thankful smile before reaching behind her to grab one of the individually wrapped paper cups, dropping the plastic on the counter carelessly as she filled the cup with water from the sink. Soul already had two pain pills in hand and was ready to hand them over, but instead found the cup shoved at him. 

“Maka…”

“Indulge me,” she murmured, eyelids heavy as the effect of the late night and the long fight were starting to drag at her. It was a hard look to deny, and Soul could only smile wryly as he knocked back the two pills and chased it with a long sip of Hotel Tap Water. Maka had taken the opportunity to shake two of the pills into her own hand, and accepted the cup without any fuss and drained it quickly. “Can I pass out now?” she asked, frowning at Soul, and he nodded before stepping out of her way as he began to struggle with getting out of his own clothes so he could sleep. Instead of hopping off the counter like he expected, Maka tugged him back towards her by the shirt and helped pull the hem over his head and shoulders when his arms screamed in protest when he tried to raise them past his shoulders. 

“Just a little sore, huh?”

“I was a scythe for four and a half hours, leave me alone.”

Maka giggled at Soul’s grumbling as he struggled with his belt, kicking his jeans into the Pile Of Battle Clothes That Needed To Be Bleached Later. It didn't take long to give himself a similar wipe down, altogether too lazy to take a shower, with Maka helping to get his back. The combination of the warm washcloth and Maka's hands rubbing across his shoulders felt almost sinfully good, and she laughed as he melted against her hands.

The second washcloth went the same direction of the first, and Soul finally felt human enough for bed. Instead of hopping off the counter, Maka held her hands out towards him and Soul made a show of rolling his eyes before stepping into her embrace. Wrapping around him like a koala, Maka let Soul pick her up and carry her over towards her bed as her nose pressed against his neck. Her warm breath on his neck and beating heart under his hand on her back finally loosened the last bit of stress Soul was carrying in his shoulders following the long fight, and he carefully shifted his meister higher in his arms as he pulled down the sheets and blankets with one hand.

“Here we go,” Soul said, one knee resting on the bed as he bent down to set her down on the soft mattress. He honestly shouldn’t have been surprised when instead of letting go, Maka just pulled him down after her; snorting at his yelp as she rolled them both onto their side. “ _ Oi-” _

“Shhh, just sleep,” Maka murmured with a small grin, curling up against his chest as their legs tangled together.

“We paid for two beds, why are we not  _ using _ the two beds-”

“ _ Shhhhh.” _

“Next time we’re just getting a king and you are not allowed to whine about it.”

“Oh my goood, what part of ‘ _ shhh’  _ is confusing you?”

Soul huffed, blowing some of Maka’s bangs back from her eyes and upsetting the long strands that didn’t make it into her bun, but grew quiet as he watched his meister’s breathing slow and her dark lashes fall against her cheeks.

It was not the first time the godawful hour of two-forty in the morning found them curled up together in a hotel bed hundreds of miles away from their apartment, nor would it be the last. It was an occupational hazard when you routinely watched your best friend and literal soulmate put their lives on the line nearly every night; the relief of surviving made them soft and pliable and clingy. It was only here, alone, that they allowed themselves that kind of intimacy; where no one could see them and no one could try to make it more than it was. It was just them, 2 AM, and the slowly-aligning beats of their hearts.


	2. Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maka needs friends. Probably not a great idea to try and make one out of the neighbor she has an embarrassing crush on.

‘Charismatic but lonely’ was a weird state to exist in.

Maka was not a girl with a lot of friends, but it wasn’t because she wasn’t friendly. It was one thing she had inherited from her father in spades; the ability to make easy conversation with anyone she met. She was good at making acquaintances, good at joking with the person behind her in line at the grocery store or next to her at the gym. She was on a first name basis with most of her coworkers, knew their birthdays and who was married with kids and who was vying for a promotion.

But the gift from her father was a double-edged sword. After all, it was his betrayal and her mother’s absence that made it so hard for Maka to open up to anyone beyond that superficial level. All the friendly conversations in the world didn’t stop Maka from spending her evenings alone, her cat competing with her book for that Prime Maka Lap Real Estate; her phone dead and quiet.

She had a few friends, of course, back from school - and earlier in Blake’s case - but they all had their own busy lives to lead, and weeks could go by without more than a few messages in a group chat. Maka craved that easy interaction of just existing with someone in the same space, or being able to reach out and know someone would be reaching back.

It got to the point where Maka was using more than a little underhanded methods to get her ‘fix’.

Getting her mail was one of those things she should do when she got home, but it was also one of the few ways she could see other people without leaving her apartment, so shamefully, she usually put it off until she could hear someone on the landing below. Her apartment shared the building with five others, two on each of the three floors, and Maka was on the second which meant it was easy to hear the downstairs door when her apartment was quiet. 

She heard the familiar click and rattle of the door downstairs and quickly set her tablet down, slipping on her flip flops before nonchalantly walking out the door and down the stairs. She looked at her phone as if she wasn't paying attention to anyone else around her, only slipping the device back in her pocket when she reached the bottom floor.

Was the charade necessary? Probably not. But it made her feel a little less like a stalkerish weirdo who lived for five-second interactions with her neighbors.

She always hoped that it was the older woman who lived below her, Marie; Marie would talk with Maka forever and sometimes even invite her to her apartment for a snack like she was a favorite niece instead of her lonely neighbor. But instead it was the man from 3B, his white hair wild and his tall form in his characteristic slouch. Maka tried to avoid him, if only because his  _ couldn't-possibly-be-but-definitely-were _ red eyes and strong chin always rendered her shy and speechless, and that went against the whole damn point!

“Oh, hey Soul!” Maka said, sounding convincingly caught off-guard by her neighbor. Soul looked up and gave her a nod and a small half-grin, her weak heart sent racing.

“Yo. Forget to grab your mail again?” he asked. Maka laughed, not having to fake her embarrassed flush as she pulled out her keys.

“What can I say? Got a lot of things on my mind at 3 in the afternoon,” she joked, and his snort of amusement was like an actual balm to her system. For a moment, they shared her joke, and it was a little less lonely in her world.

She went to her box and flushed when she realized Soul was standing directly in front of it as he grabbed his own mail. He shifted to the side, arm held up so Maka could duck under to get to her box, and she was made aware for not the first time of the fact that Soul - even slouched - was very tall and she was very not. She pressed herself against the wall as she fumbled for her keys, increasingly aware of Soul behind her, and cursed her frozen tongue. She just wanted a few moments of friendly banter! Was that too much to ask?

Junk mail in hand, Maka turned on her heel and nearly smacked right into Soul's chest. She stammered her apology, both taking a few steps back (or at least Maka took half of one back until she literally hit a wall), and in avoiding his face Maka found herself staring at his chest.

She had never figured out what Soul did to afford his apartment, but wherever he worked had a fairly lax dress code. He often wore jeans in various stages of ripped and graphic tees or messy button ups under his jacket of the week. Maka had never recognized the band names or album art on those shirts of his, but as she read the familiar “ _ How Do You Want To Do This?” _ across his surprisingly solid chest, she blurted out “You like Critical Roll?” and silently rejoiced that she had something in common with the man from 3B.

Soul blinked at her before looking down at himself and let out a little huff. “Oh, right. Um, yeah actually,” he said, and Maka watched curiously as his ears went red. “Congrats on being the first to recognize it; someone asked me if it was a Big Bang reference earlier and I think it took 10 years off my lifespan.”

They both shuddered in unison.

“Well at least now we know why the wifi is so slow on Thursdays,” she joked. “We’re both streaming it.” Maka’s tongue, usually so uncooperative around this particular neighbor, decided that now was the  _ perfect  _ time to go rogue and she heard herself saying “We should probably just watch it together.”

What!?  _ Yes,  _ hell  _ yes,  _ but WHAT!?

Soul seemed just as surprised as she did that those words had come out of her mouth, but before she could start stammering and make an even bigger idiot of herself, his lips pulled up in a grin. It was wider than usual, and all of Maka’s words died in her throat. Oh fuck, he had dimples.

“I dunno, I’ve been known to yell at my TV in the past,” he said, his tone light and- oh god, was he teasing her? Were they teasing each other? Holy shit! “You the type to mind that?” 

“Please, I’ll probably be yelling with you,” Maka admitted with a small huff of laughter, hands clasped behind her back as she rolled the edge of one of the flyers between her fingers shyly. “Another friend of mine forced me to take up crochet to sublimate my rage after I nearly broke my laptop after a bad string of Nat 1s.”

Oh geeze, way to make herself seem unhinged.

But Soul’s grin just got wider, Maka’s following suit. “Your place or mine?” he asked, and Maka was  _ beaming. _

* * *

It became a regular thing, Soul and Maka meeting at his apartment every Thursday night to watch the Twitch stream together on Soul’s - frankly - absurdly fancy TV. Maka had just gaped at it the first night, Soul’s ears a bright red as he explained it was a birthday gift from his parents like that made it better. But now, with several weeks worth of memories of throwing popcorn at that fancy TV with Soul under her belt, it didn’t catch her nearly as off-guard.

It certainly wasn’t enough to curb the excitement of having an actual, honest to god friend. That she made! All by herself! Look at her, being a functioning adult member of society.

It wasn’t long until their Thursday night hangouts bled out into the rest of the week; starting with Soul inviting Maka over when his favorite take-out place sent the wrong order and left him with too much food, to Maka inviting Soul over when Tsubaki brought over the results of a baking marathon that she couldn’t possibly eat all on her own. Then there was the texting, which had originally just been an exchange of numbers in case their work schedules got in the way of Thursday, and then he had sent her a few bored texts from work, and now they texted daily for hours. At least when they weren’t hanging out together in one apartment or the other.

It didn’t hurt that the man behind the fluffy white hair, impossible eyes, and strong chin was even more appealing than she had believed possible. Soul was  _ funny,  _ with a dry, quick wit that had reduced her to wheezing tears more than a few times. It was rare that Maka was able to find someone who could keep up with her when she really got going, but Soul had managed to not only meet her quip for quip, but even render her speechless on a couple of occasions. 

She was having a  _ blast. _

He was kind behind his aloof exterior, and dorky in a way that shouldn’t have surprised her considering they were both D&D nerds. She found out that he worked as a manager at a local music shop and gave piano lessons on the side, that he had attended Julliard -  _ Julliard!!! -  _ for a couple of years before deciding that it wasn’t the path for him. That he worked out regularly and usually ate well except for Thursdays, when he would pull out all of their favorite teeth-rotting sweets and order take-out and make popcorn with a truly heartstopping amount of butter. That he drummed his fingers against whatever was closest whenever he got nervous, even if that was her. That he happened to be a bit of an attention hog, and wasn’t against throwing himself over her lap if she got sucked too deeply into one of the manuscripts she was editing while he was over, all long limbs and grinning teeth and Soul.

Maka was pretty sure he was her best friend.

Shame about that massive crush she had on him.

She was texting him as she walked into their apartment building, juggling her phone, keys, and smile all at once. It had been weeks since she had felt the need to put off getting her mail just to talk to another person, though she was sure to still check in with Ms. Marie from time to time, so Maka stopped by the mail boxes to check for anything other than junk mail. It was blissfully quiet as she searched for the right key, and it was only the sound of a door opening and closing and rushing footsteps that distracted her. Maka looked up just in time to see Soul trip and catch himself on the last few steps, coming to an awkward, flailing halt at the end of the landing that had Maka giggling. His ears went red in that adorable way that always made Maka want to coo and comb her fingers through his hair, and he coughed before lounging against the railing like he could play it off.

“Forget your mail?” Maka asked, grinning, and Soul scrunched his nose at her in reply.

“What can I say? Got a lot on my mind,” he joked back. Snorting, Maka turned back to her mailbox with a shake of her head, feeling her now ever-present smile pulling at her lips. This is nice. What they have is nice. She should really stop thinking about how nice it would be to pull him down to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“Thought I’d take a page from your book and intercept you in the hall,” he said, and Maka would  _ not _ dignify that with a response. It had taken four Jack and Cokes and three hours of Mystery Science Theater 3000 to get that confession out of her, and the less time she spent acknowledging how awkward and desperate she had been pre-Soul-Friendship, the better.

“If you just came down to tease me, you better turn your bean-pole butt around,” she said with a threatening wiggle of her keys, unable to smother her grin. Soul held his hands up innocently, chuckling under his breath.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured, watching Maka finally pop her mailbox open and sort through the contents. “Actually wanted to catch you to ask you something.” At that, Maka looked up with a quirked eyebrow. 

“Soul you were  _ just  _ texting me,” she said, and watched in surprise as his blush went down to his cheeks.  _ That  _ was new. Or least it was new on sober Soul; that same night with the Jack and MST3K had resulted in Maka watching as a flushed Soul attempted to play along to the show’s theme using her legs as an impromptu keyboard. She had video.

“Yeah, no, I- I know,” he said, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “This was more of an in-person question?” 

Maka closed her mailbox, watching him with equal parts curiosity and concern. “Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” he said, taking a deep breath. “So, my brother’s in town and sent me tickets to his performance, and I was wondering… you know, if you wanted to come with?” He had mentioned his older brother a few times before, a violinist for some orchestra Maka couldn’t remember the name of to save her life, and she smiled warmly at him.

“Of course! Tell me when and where, I’ll be there,” she promised, sliding her mail in her purse and stepping closer to the stairs and Soul. Her answer didn’t seem to alleviate his nerves. In fact, he seemed to get more nervous. She decided waiting him out was the best route; Soul sometimes had problems with turning thoughts into words, and she had learned how to be patient and give him time to say his piece. Just like he had learned to be patient and let her come to him over time, scaling her walls bit by bit until they were just that little bit closer. Soul knew things about her that even her  _parents_ didn't, not that that was hard, but it still occasionally took her by surprise how much she had come to trust Soul in just a few months.

“I was also thinking,” he said slowly, staring very hard at her shoulder. “If… you know, if we could get dinner before the show? Something a little nicer than take out?”

“Nicer than take out?” Maka pressed her hand to her chest, grinning at Soul and hoping a joke could ease some of the tension from his shoulders. “I’m swooning. Careful, I’m feeling woo’ed.”

Soul didn’t laugh.

In fact, he seemed to get redder, and Maka suddenly felt a little lightheaded. “I mean… I hope so?” Soul said, laughing awkwardly as he tugged on the hair at the back of his neck. “I’m asking you on a date, after all.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Maka breathed. Swooning was rapidly becoming a very real possibility. Soul looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

Soul was not a nervous rambler, so the landing was almost painfully quiet as Maka mentally went back five minutes and replayed their whole interaction in her head. He was asking her out? On a date? Not a friend-date, a _date-date?_ They had gone out before, usually with either Soul’s group of friends or Maka’s, but they had been casual things with other people. This was a nice dinner, alone, with a show after. Maka would wear a dress. Soul might wear that suit she had seen in pictures on his Facebook page. It was far from their regular thing. She wanted it so badly she could  _taste it._

Maka could tell she had been quiet too long because Soul was starting to squirm, and it seemed to jump-start something in her brain that caused her legs to propel her forward. He finally looked up when she was only a step or two away - impossibly warm red eyes wide - and Maka screwed up her courage, put it in the sticking place, and rolled up onto her toes so she could press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“What should I wear?” she asked with a shy smile when she dropped back onto her heels, meeting Soul's eyes bravely as he stared at her in shock. Maka, unlike Soul,  _ was  _ a nervous rambler, so it didn't take long for her to try and fill the awkward silence. “'Cause like, I figure the concert will be pretty fancy but 'nicer than take-out’ isn't super specific? And I own maybe two dresses appropriate for a nice date but they're different levels of 'nice’ so I just need a ballpark-”

Soul's hands came up to cup her jaw while he leaned back down, his mouth slanting over hers gently and stealing all of the air from the damn room. Maka sighed, her hands resting against his wrists as she let him pull her close, her eyes fluttering closed. Oh wow, he had very nice lips. They should have done this ages ago.

“Wear whatever you want,” Soul said, sounding a little breathless himself as he pressed his forehead against hers. “You'll be the most beautiful person there no matter what. So was that a yes?”

Flushing with delight at the way his eyes had warmed when he called her beautiful, Maka smiled. “Kiss-ass,” she teased. “Of course it's a yes.”

It was only when a grinning Marie came out to take out her garbage that the two managed to separate, and even that wasn't for very long as Soul tugged her up to his apartment, smiling in a way that showed his dimples and made her trip over her own feet several times; thanking whatever deity was listening for this man that was her best friend and so much more all rolled into one.


	3. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'All of this time I've been keeping my mind on the running away. And for the first time I think I'd consider the stay' - "You Matter to Me" by Sara Bareilles

Soul wasn’t proud of it, but he was very good at running away. It had been a skill he had been perfecting his whole life, from the day he finally realized why his parents looked so disappointed after he performed just for them. He knew how to make a quiet escape, how to make even his odd white hair blend in until he was invisible. He knew how to make himself seem as uninterested as possible, so should anyone notice he was gone, they wouldn’t want to drag him back. He knew how to lead a conversation to something more interesting - say, his brother - so that his absence was never missed.

It was a con that resulted in Soul having shit people skills and a strong aversion to crowds. Win some, lose some.

He had gotten so good at running away, that when he hit his first growth spurt at twelve and learned that he could switch between boy and blade with a thought, he saw the door it had made and waited for the perfect moment. He wore his parents down, convincing them that sending their baby to school for Stabbing was really for the best, he should learn to control it so he wasn’t a danger to himself, what would their friends think if their son couldn’t control when he went from musician to  _ actual demon blade _ ? He even got Wes to help, even if he could see by the shadows under his brother’s eyes that he knew what Soul was doing, and couldn’t decide if it was for the best or not.

Soul thought he would have to resort to desperate measures, until fate had slipped the key into the door. Wes had been the one to suggest attending the gala, his parents unaware of the DWMA Recruitment Convention happening in the same hotel in their hometown of Philadelphia. Soul had just thought they’d get some pamphlets, maybe meet some other weapons, listen to that Albarn lady give her keynote speech; he hadn’t been looking for a partner. But sitting in that quiet room at the baby grand, looking up at the girl his age with the grey-blonde hair and almost uncomfortably piercing green eyes, he had played for her and she had held out her hand.

Maka Albarn threw open the door and grabbed him by the hand as they both ran; Soul leaving his name and his legacy behind as he ran further than he ever had before.

He ran away to Death City, and slowly began to realize that maybe going across the country had been a bit ambitious for a twelve-year-old. He didn’t know the town, didn’t know the streets, didn’t know the names or faces. He didn’t know where else to run, and now he had no choice but to dig in his heels and wait until he did. Luckily, he was paired with a Master of Heel-Digging, and Maka was a good case-study in Stubborn. She didn’t run from anything or anyone, she stared her shit down with those unnerving green eyes and asked for seconds. She kept a firm grip on him when he tried to skip classes or practice when he realized that being a Knife on a Stick was harder than he expected and the fear of failing (again) made his whole body twitch. She stared down kishin eggs like they were paying her to - they  _ weren’t,  _ by the way - and didn’t hesitate to rush in swinging, Soul’s shouts that  _ maybe a plan would be nice _ seeming to go in one ear and out the other without making a single dent in her reckless confidence.

The only time he ever saw her run from something was when she showed up at his apartment at eleven at night when they were fourteen, duffle bag slung over her arm and green eyes soft and sad and misty as she asked if she could spend the night. A few days later her mother left on a mission with no defined objective, and Maka officially moved in to Soul’s spare room. 

Soul tried not to think too hard about the fact that  _ he  _ was what she ran to when she finally cracked. Failed that. Thought about it  _ way too much. _ Felt the world spin too fast under his feet until it came to a peaceful stop.

Soul still ran away from parties and classes, still slipped away to quiet balconies and backroads where even the growl of his motorcycle’s engine seemed muted, but some of Maka’s bravery and confidence must have rubbed off on him because when the cards were down, he stood his ground. He bared those newly-sharpened teeth and flashed blood-red eyes that had changed when he had started his new diet of corrupted souls, dug in his heels, and stood next to his meister and didn’t feel that tug in his gut that urged him to  _ bolt.  _

If he was what Maka ran to, she needed to know where he was.

He didn’t run anymore when he was scared of coming up short, instead he just subtly planted the idea that they needed more practice on a certain technique in Maka’s ear and made a show of protesting just enough before eagerly shifting into her hands. He didn’t run when the crowds made him feel overwhelmed and claustrophobic, instead he searched for his meister and pulled her into a conversation until her attention was entirely on him and he could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

When she made him a Death Scythe and more doors than Soul could count appeared and flung themselves wide, Soul stayed in one place; not even giving them a glance as he watched her grey-blonde hair and piercing green eyes and vibrant smile.

When he graduated and his parents tried to call him back home, Soul didn’t budge; telling them in no uncertain terms that he was a Death Scythe and Maka Albarn’s partner and that’s where he planned on staying.

It wasn’t until they returned to the hotel where they had first met - Maka the Albarn keynote speaker this time and Soul helping some of the younger weapons come to terms with their new realities - that he realized that maybe he hadn’t been running away. As he sat the piano where he had met her for the first time, her hand on his knee as he played for her once more, he wondered if he hadn’t been running  _ to  _ something this whole time.

Running to her. To the first thing in this world that had made him want to stay.


	4. Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul's not really human anymore, he doesn't think. Making a deal with a coyote deity had that effect on a man. But not all the changes in him are as easy to spot as the eyes and teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a Western DnD au I may be turning into an Actual Thing. Soul's a kinda-human bard, Maka's a half-elf Ranger, and I am fucking winging this and only acknowledging actual DnD rules and stats when it suits me.
> 
> TW for slight body horror and blood mentions. Nothing beyond canon-typical levels, but still. Heads up.

Not for the first time, Soul realized that he had jumped into this whole contract a little too hastily. He was young and dumb and messing with things no mortal could understand, and he had shaken hands with the first thing to come out of the desert like the trusting idiot he was. 

_ ‘Take me across the desert, and I’ll give you power. Give you  _ **_life_ ** _. Don’t you want to live? Break free of all that ice and truly  _ **_l i v e_ ** _? I can give that to you.’ _

Delirious and half-dead, Soul had said yes.

His wounds had healed first. Too fast, leaving scars all over his body. The largest of which split his chest from shoulder to hip, a clean line that didn’t match the messy  _ pain  _ that had followed the cut. Then, his eyes. They had once been brown, nice and human, but now they were a vivid red that was too stark against his pale skin. Suddenly the world was  _ sharper,  _ colors so vibrant they made his head pound and the world crystal clear around him even in the dark. He had holed himself up in a backwater saloon for three days; curled up under the sheets in the dark until the world stopped hurting as much.

The hair and the teeth were more gradual, coming in over days instead of overnight. His once-clean cut brown hair grew shaggy and pale, bleached by the sun and by Oni’s presence until each strand was bone white. The teeth? He hadn’t thought much of the ache in his mouth until he had grinned at a farmer’s wife as he passed their fields and she had screamed in terror. A peek into mirror the next day showed him that gone were his blunt, human teeth; replaced by long, wolf-like fangs. Oni’s laughter had bounced around in his head for hours, clearly amused by the man’s horror.

‘ _ Who will threaten you now? Who would dare? We are one, you and I, and now you will defend yourself as I do. As all my children do.’ _

If he grew a fucking tail the deal was  _ off. _

No, he wasn’t going to grow a tail. Brat.

As the days passed and Soul wandered further into the desert, he came to accept the changes to his body that his deal had brought. They weren’t all bad. He didn’t burn under the sun, even as his pale skin grew tan and tough. He didn’t tire as quickly, even under the unfamiliar heat of the desert sun. His voice - Northern accent smooth and rounded compared to the short hisses of the Death Children - deepened and roughened to a husky drawl that never failed to bring him coin when he played his guitar and crooned to inebriated crowds in saloons. 

His new eyes let him see danger before it saw him, let him duck and sneak away from the men wearing skull pins that had Oni writhing and spitting in his chest. His new ears no longer listened just for pitches and scales, but for movement in the night when he slept under the stars with no protection save his own teeth and the dented pistol one of the outlaws had dropped when they had attacked him. His new sense of smell lead him to towns and to water and to food, let him pick out the ripe scent of liars and thieves and murderers so he knew who to tread lightly around and who to just plain avoid.

He didn’t have words to describe the new sense that told him when the demons that roamed the sands got too close, only that it felt bigger and older than him by the whole damn age of the world and made his hair raise and his pulse rush. There were no words for it, but he damn sure listened when it spoke.

Gone were his nobleman’s clothes, though his jacket was still just a little too fine and well-made to let him truly blend in. His odd features were hidden by the deep brim of his hat, and he almost was beginning to think he could make it to the other side of Shibusen without getting himself or his “travelling mate” killed.

And then he ran into  _ her.  _ And then all his plans changed.

Maka Albarn was a contradiction in so many ways, and she confounded all of his new senses. Her scent was dry, burning herbs in temples and age-worn leather and wood and fletching feathers. The sound of her was murmured prayers in hisses and gasps and the sharp snap of a bowstring. His eyes followed the freckles that dotted her fair skin like they tracked animal trails, like maybe if he followed those little sun marks long enough he’d be able to unravel her and find what exactly made the half-elf tick. Instead he found himself distracted by the lines of her neck and calluses on her hands and the way she moved with a grace that made the high-born women of the world he had run from look like stumbling foals in comparison.

That Feeling Without A Name never lost track of her, even as their party grew and their nights grew louder and more crowded. No matter what, he knew where she was; was aware of her like an extension of himself. Aware of her as a threat, as an ally, as a woman he had watched take down a demon from the back of a galloping horse with a bow and arrow. It spoke, and he listened. She moved, he followed.

Oni, past the annoyance that their once single-minded journey from one edge of the desert to the other had been waylaid by her mission to save the whole damn thing, was intrigued. Soul tried not to think too hard about how much that scared him.

Maka saw his coyote fangs and his red eyes and his Northern’s sneer and rode with him anyways. She saw how his hands shook around a pistol and trusted him with her back anyways, with her  _ life.  _ She heard the demons in the lonely twang of his guitar, in the twisted lyrics that sang of lost souls and chaos and whipped up illusions to rival any desert mirage, and treated it like a lullaby. She saw the aching hunger that came with each new moon, saw the change him as Oni rose and his voice got too loud to drown out, and waited for him anyways.

(One night, as his friends slept and the fire grew dim, Soul wondered if he would have been so drawn to her if he had still had human teeth and eyes and senses, if she would have looked at that dumb, naive kid from the snow and mountains and found him lacking. If she would have been so mystified by his playing if there wasn’t that hint of Oni’s chaos in each chord, if maybe she would have still listened to him in stone halls with rich curtains and the echoing of piano keys. He wondered if he’d ever be content not knowing.)

She distracted his senses so thoroughly that he didn’t realize what else she had brought out in him until he watched, horrified, as she fell. 

Her scent was thick with life and copper and rust and dry herbs and blood. The sound of her was wet, rattling gasps with a witch’s cackles as accompaniment. His eyes met hers, wide and scared and the only green thing for fucking miles.

His red eyes were hard with fury. His bone white hair stood on end on his arms and neck. His coyote teeth were bared in a snarl. And that Feeling Without A Name, bigger and older than the world, took his deep, rasping voice and spat words that made the air turn. He hissed in a demon’s tongue as he crouched over Maka, as the fury of a god gathered in his chest and throat and hands. The order of the world bent around him, chaos rising with each Infernal word that dripped from his tongue, and he saw the horror in the witch in front of him as she realized what she had angered.

Wild and untethered, Soul defended his own as any deity would. As all Oni’s children did. With teeth, instinct, and unthinking fury.

He reached into the dry desert sky, and ripped the order of the world apart to save the woman at his feet. Dumb and trusting and praying in hisses and gasps that she would live.


	5. Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poorly-timed encounter with her father causes Maka to reveal something she really would have rather kept quiet. Something involving her partner and a certain angelic pet name...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, we're all just going to pretend it's still April and it didn't take me almost a month to bang this out. I'm not exceedingly happy with this, but at least it's _up_.

It wasn’t exactly the welcome wagon she was hoping for, all things considered. She would have preferred just walking quietly through the airport, collecting their bags, hopping on Soul’s motorcycle, and hitting the grocery store before disappearing into their apartment for at  _ least  _ seven days of recovery and relaxation. Their mission in Brazil had taken  _ much  _ longer than expected, the one week mission turning into a  _ five week  _ long one, and she just wanted to curl up in her own bed and sleep for a year.

But no. She nearly got clotheslined by her father instead. Only her weapon’s quick reflexes kept her from being tackled to the blacktop by the over-enthusiastic Death Scythe. “MAKAAA!” Spirit cried, Soul’s hand still holding onto the back of her jacket as her father clung to her shoulders.

“Papa!” Maka gasped, wincing at the pressure put on her recently-dislocated shoulder. Soul tried to push her father off as gently as possible, but Spirit just changed tack and hugged her around the waist instead. Instead of her shoulders, now it was her ribs that were protesting. She had long resigned herself to her father’s brand of smothering affection, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be annoyed that the Death Scythe of North America couldn’t identify when a meister had bruised ribs.

Or maybe her annoyance stemmed from the fact that while he didn’t mind holding her up, her weapon seemed to have no plans to help remove her father from her person past the first attempt. In fact, if the shaking in his hand was anything to go by, the jerk was  _ actively laughing at her. _

If she weren’t so damn tired, Soul would be laughing from the blacktop with a dent in his skull.

“My beautiful girl, back safe and sound in her papa’s arms!” Spirit wailed, nuzzling his cheek against the top of Maka’s head. Her eye twitched almost imperceptibly and Maka fought the urge to just slam her elbow into his gut and be done with it. But no, let’s not get physical. Things had steadily been getting better with her papa - getting to be something that almost matched what Maka had been told was ‘normal’ - but whenever she left Death City for too long on a life-or-death three star mission, her papa returned to overemotional, blubbering form. 

That didn’t mean she had to sink to his maturity level.

“Come on, Death Scythe,” Soul said, laughter still in his voice. “Let go before you break Maka any further.” Instead of making him let her go, Soul’s words only made Spirit grab her arms and look her over frantically.

“What? You’re hurt!? Who did this to you!” he asked, poking at her shoulders and torso until he made her wince. Soul’s amusement was quickly drying up as Maka tried to swat his hands away. 

“Probably one of the  _ several rebel witches we fought,”  _ Maka hissed, glaring at Spirit as she tried to back away from him only to bump into Soul, caught between the two weapons. Oh, if only she could go back in time and tell little eleven-year-old Maka that scythes were overrated assholes and that she should find herself a lovely baseball bat for a weapon instead. “Papa, stop poking me! It’s just a couple of bruised ribs!”

“How could you let her get hurt, you damn delinquent!” Spirit howled. The five weeks apart had made her papa nearly unbearable, and Maka could practically _ feel  _ Soul’s lips pulling into an epic frown.

“Oi, have you met your daughter? I didn’t  _ let  _ her do anything,” he drawled, only Maka hearing the dangerous edge to his words. It only  _ slightly _ dulled the annoyance that they shot through her. “Now let go, you’re acting like an idiot.”

Spirit did not let go, nor did he stop acting like an idiot. “Don’t worry, angel,” he cooed, petting Maka’s hair, “your papa is here to protect you now.”

Something inside of Maka snapped at the nickname, and she stomped down  _ hard  _ on her father’s foot. “ _ Don’t  _ call me that!” she hissed, dull teeth bared at her hopping father.

“B-but I thought you wanted-”

“ _ Not by you!” _

Maka immediately knew she had fucked up by the way Soul went suspiciously still behind her, both partners watching Spirit nurse his aching foot and flounder for words. There was something under her words, an intent that hinted that Maka wasn’t just saying she didn’t want her father to call her ‘angel’; rather that she had someone in mind who she  _ did _ want to use that nickname and  _ he was not them _ . Finally free and wanting to be as far away as possible from both scythes, Maka turned on her heel and stormed across the blacktop, hair flying behind her and hopefully obscuring the red tips of her ears.

“Come on, we still have to go get our luggage!” she yelled back, not bothering to turn around to see if Soul heard her. They were both going to the same place anyways, and it wasn’t like Soul ever strayed very far from her side. Sure enough, only a few moments later, his sneakers fell into step with her boots, and Maka happily ignored him.

They didn’t speak as they waited for their luggage, both caught in their own heads for their own reasons. Soul was probably trying to figure out why Maka was being a spazz, and Maka was trying very hard  _ not _ to think about him doing that. Because he probably could. It wasn’t like she was subtle. She was like her papa in that way; easy-to-read, neon letters spelling out the contents of her heart on the billboard that was her sleeve. And Soul was smarter than he liked to admit, quick and analytical with a mind that picked apart details like it picked apart sheet music.

She gave him fifteen minutes, tops, to figure out that the only person she wanted to call her  _ ‘Angel’ _ was  _ him.  _ That it had only ever been him. That seeing his eyes go soft and fond and hearing that name in his deep voice made her knees - and will - weak.

… Maybe longer because sometimes, when it came to matters of the heart, Soul was just as clueless and oblivious as she was. But really, within the hour, and then she was _really_ screwed.

Maka was so caught up in berating herself mentally that she nearly missed her duffle bag going past on the conveyor until Soul’s hand shot out and grabbed it.

“You okay, Maka?” he asked, red eyes focused on her with an intensity that almost made her head spin.

“Just tired,” she said, not exactly lying. “Papa’s exhausting enough when you  _ didn’t  _ just get off a sixteen-hour flight. Now? I just want to curl up and sleep for the rest of the month.” Soul hummed in amused agreement, tossing her the duffle bag carefully before grabbing his own suitcase off the conveyor. They made their way to the front of the airport, the quiet surrounding them caught between familiar and achingly awkward. Soul’s motorcycle was still where he had left it, safe and sound beneath the tarp, and Maka waited patiently as he took off the cover and began to fold it. 

Once the tarp had been angrily shoved into the saddlebag along with their bags, all attempts at proper storage abandoned, Soul swung himself onto the bike and held out a hand towards Maka. “Come on, we’ve got a coma to slip into.” Soul grinned at her, and the tension bled from Maka’s shoulders as she giggled.

“We really should get some groceries,” she said as she put her hand in his, easily swinging her leg over and settling in behind Soul in her usual spot. He seemed content to let her slip of the tongue go without pursuing it too closely, which meant that Maka could relax a little bit and enjoy finally being home again.

“We can order out.” He shrugged, bringing the bike to life under them as Maka’s arms went around her partner’s waist. Pressed against Soul, Maka could feel him take a deep breath before he revved the engine. He looked over his shoulder and gave her a grin that made shivers run from the tips of her hair to her toes. “Hang on tight, angel,” he rumbled, and Maka instantly went completely red. His grin grew wider and Maka weakly smacked his stomach before hiding her face in his jacket, all too-aware that he could feel her flustered satisfaction singing between their souls, like the  _ jackass  _ he was _. _

But he was a jackass who drove carefully to avoid upsetting her ribs, ordered two servings of her favorite crab rangoons for her, and kissed her forehead as they fell asleep on the couch tangled together, so she figured she would allow it. Just like she did every time he called her that.


End file.
